His Chosen One
by belladonna803
Summary: Harry incurs the wrath of a most dangerous foe: Gwenog Jones, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies. Just how bad could it be? ; Written for the Singing Valentine challenge at Catch My Snitch on LJ.


A/N: Many thanks to my dear lnalvgd for the super-quick beta. You rock, chicklet!

* * *

"But Gwenog, I just—"

"No buts, Harry. I don't want anything to ruin our chances against Puddlemere." She jabbed her finger at his chest, emphasizing each word. "They've been playing a very fierce game this season and we need to be in top form. You can't see her." The hard, slightly menacing look on Gwenog's face told Harry that the discussion was over. He hadn't had much hope, to be honest. _Damn_.

She turned on her heel and slammed the heavy wooden door in his face, missing his nose by a hair's breadth. He slumped against its mottled surface in defeat. "But it's been two weeks," he muttered.

Even the golden talon of the Harpies logo that adorned the door seemed to be mocking him, shining brightly in the February sunlight. He only wanted to pass along a note; that was all. It wasn't as if he was asking to see her, though he'd jump at the chance, mind you. Giving the door one last defeated glance, Harry Apparated back to Grimmauld Place.

He plunked himself down into a chair in the kitchen; feeling more dejected than he had before he'd left for Harpies headquarters. Hermione and Ron glanced up from their reading; Hermione was pouring over what looked like a more advanced edition of _Fantastic Beasts_, and Ron was busily scratching numbers down into a violently green ledger that bore the Wheezes emblem.

"No luck, eh, mate?" Ron asked. He winced at Harry's wordless reply. "I told you there'd be no talking to Gwenog. She's the toughest captain in the league, according to _Quidditch Weekly_."

"There's only two more days until the match, Harry. You've made it this far, I'm sure it will be here and over before you know it." Hermione smiled reassuringly, but Harry just shook his head.

"It's just that the last time I saw her we had this huge row, and now she's been under bloody lock and key for two weeks!" He scrubbed a weary hand through his hair and exhaled. "Look, I just…I just need to apologize."

"Get mum to make her favourite meal on Sunday," offered Ron.

"Better yet, make it yourself," said Hermione.

Harry pulled his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I just want to get a message to her, but they're not allowing any owl post, floo calls, or visitors. They've even put up anti-Apparition Charms—"

His eyes got large, and he quickly slipped his glasses back on. "Oh my god, I can't believe I didn't think of it before! He could…I mean…he's not…and they can do it at Hog—" He launched himself out of his chair as though it had suddenly burst into flames, and raced out of the room, punching the air in triumph as he went out the door.

Hermione looked over to see Ron sniggering into his ledger. "What's so funny?"

"He's just done a you!"

"Pardon?"

Ron sat his quill down and grinned at her. "He's just done a classic Hermione. Y'know, mumbling, shifty eyes, stopping mid-sentence, and then vanishing without explaining anything." She scowled. "Although," he added, "It has to be said: you look much cuter when you do it."

Hermione rolled her eyes and reached across the table to swat him on the arm, sending Ron into peals of laughter.

* * *

The sound of cards being slapped down forcefully could be heard in what amounted to a common room, of sorts, that the Harpies had set up for their sequestered players. Ginny was stretched out along the worn leather sofa, sipping butterbeer and trying her best to stay focused on the romance novel that was perched on her knee. They'd been having long, grueling practices all week, and everyone was anxious for Saturday to arrive. Their well established rivalry with Puddlemere had somehow managed to reach an even greater fervor, and everyone was feeling the pressure.

"Snap!" shouted the team's Keeper. A moment later, the cards exploded, sending plumes of acrid black smoke into the air at the center of the table.

"Dammit, Ethelda! That's the third t-time tonight!" A very slender witch with tightly plaited blond hair was spluttering and scowling, and waving at her nose.

Ethelda began to stand, the tension giving way to anger. "That's the game, Tilly. If you don't like it, stop playing. It's not like I did it on purpose!"

"QUIET!" Everyone froze in place as Gwenog strode down the stairs, her Beater's bat thrown threateningly over her shoulder. "Save it for the pitch!" She glanced around, staring each witch in the eye. "Now, we've got another hard practice ahead of us tomorrow. Lights out in ten minutes, no excuses!" Silence followed her back up the stairs, and the room collectively exhaled its held breath when they heard Gwenog's door shut behind her.

Ginny stood and stretched, tossing her book on the table beside the sofa. She was just about to collect the Butterbeer bottles from around the room, when a very loud cracking sound occurred just behind her. She whirled around, reaching for her wand on instinct, and was confused to find nothing there. Or, so it seemed, until she glanced down into the uncharacteristically timid face of a most unexpected visitor.

"Kreacher!" Ginny shrieked, unaware that all of her teammates had come to form a semicircle behind her. His bulbous eyes and cotton-haired ears were tremoring in an expression she'd never seen on the house-elf: one of utter nervousness. What on earth was Kreacher doing here? And what was Harry playing at, for it was surely his idea to send the elf. Didn't he realize how much trouble she would be in with Gwenog?

As if she'd sensed her name being invoked in Ginny's head, Gwenog again appeared on the stairs. "What's the meaning of—" She looked from Kreacher, who was very obviously staring at one particular person, to Ginny, who tried failingly to grin as if it was some colossal joke. "Heh. Sorry, Gwenog, I don't know what he's doing here."

"WELL? ASK HIM!"

Ginny bit her lip and looked down at Kreacher, silently plotting her revenge against a certain raven-haired, bespectacled git. "Kreacher, why has Harry sent you?"

Kreacher's gravel-filled croak echoed around the silent room. "Master Harry wanted Kreacher to deliver a message to Miss Weasley. Kreacher is to…is to…" The elf's eyes widened even further, and he gulped. "Kreacher is to sing it to Miss Weasley."

A few of the witches behind Ginny sniggered quietly, and Ginny could feel her face heating at the implication. A singing message from Harry? She shut her eyes for a moment as the date dawned on her. _It's February tenth. Merlin, Harry, why now?_

She glanced up at Gwenog, who was wearing an expression that Ginny couldn't fathom. There seemed to be a gleam in her eye as though they'd just trounced Puddlemere in the match. It did nothing to soothe Ginny's nerves. She nodded to Kreacher, who attempted to clear his throat. He opened his mouth and warbled:

_Her eyes are brown like Honeydukes chocolate,_

_Her hair is bright like the sun._

_I really miss her, and want to kiss her,_

_Oh Ginny, my Chosen One_

The silence was deafening, and then the rest of the team cackled with laughter, slapping hands on her back, and dropping into chairs, holding their stomachs. Kreacher was muttering to himself, but Ginny couldn't make it out over the din. She looked up at Gwenog and was startled to see the formidable witch standing right beside her.

"Use this elf to let Harry know that I will be paying him a visit tomorrow. There will be no need to make it rhyme." Ginny nodded numbly. The smile that Gwenog wore as she walked away was more menacing than any of the witch's notorious hotheadedness. Ginny only hoped that Harry was in one piece by the time the match was over on Saturday.

* * *

"Gwenog, can't we talk about this?"

"You said anything, Harry. Consider yourself lucky!"

"But—"

"No buts. You broke the rules, and it's time to pay the price. Now _smile_."

Instead of smiling, he rather looked like he'd eaten one too many stoat sandwiches. Which would be one, of course. He pulled unconsciously at the leather Quidditch padding that adorned his bare arms, hoping that it would magically expand and cover more of his flesh. He was also wearing an extremely tight pair of black uniform trousers, which were clearly meant for someone several sizes smaller than he was. He was sprawled on a fluffy white rug in front of a roaring fire, and the fuzz from the rug kept tickling his nose.

He felt completely ridiculous.

"C'mon, this is for charity, Harry. Don't look so pathetic. Think of all those underprivileged children you're helping to buy Quidditch supplies for! The wounded pride look isn't going to sell many calendars." Gwenog looked as though the view was the funniest thing she'd ever seen, and it was all Harry could do to keep from Disapparating on the spot.

"Actually, the wounded look—" began the photographer, but he was interrupted by a voice that made Harry's heart leap in his chest.

"If you know what's good for you, you won't finish that sentence." Ginny's tone carried a note of amusement, but also one of…ownership. Harry found it to be rather arousing. When Ginny finally came into view from amid the bright lights shining in his face, he couldn't help but smile. He bit his lip, feeling the heat rise in his skin. She looked absolutely amazing, and he momentarily forgot where he was.

The photographer was clearly thrilled with Harry's sudden change of expression. "That's excellent, Harry! Perfect!" The flash bulb continued to erupt in bursts of light, obscuring Harry's vision, but he stayed focused on Ginny.

"Sorry," he mouthed, and he could just make out her sly grin.

"This is…apology enough, Harry."

He nodded, flipping over onto his side and cocking his leg up. _Hmm, if Ginny's going to look at me like that, I might as well go for it_.

* * *

The crowd of witches that swarmed around Flourish and Blotts had Harry perplexed until he got closer to the front window. There on display, for every passerby to see, was the calendar that he and several male Quidditch players throughout England and Ireland had posed for. Harry's face and torso graced the cover, the image winking flirtatiously at the witch that no one could see. Emblazoned below his navel was the phrase, _Support Quaffles for Kiddies_.

"Oh Harry," sniggered Ron beside him.

"Shut it," Harry replied. "It's for charity."

"I can't believe you sent Kreacher in there. You're lucky Gwenog let you off so easy, mate. You could be wearing a Beater's bat in a very painful place right about now."

"Yeah, yeah." Embarrassing though it was, Harry was secretly glad he'd done it. Putting that look on Ginny's face? Very, very, very worth it. _Ooooh yeah_.


End file.
